In All but Name and Blood
by Jake Crepeau
Summary: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned—unless it's the Voyagers she tries to drive a wedge between.  Takes place some time after "Voyagers of the Titanic."
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**

What's a Leapgate, you ask? The word comes from a dream I had. I woke up with the phrase "Voyagers' Leapgate" running through my head. I was like, "WTF is a Leapgate?" It took me a few days to figure it out; once I did, it seemed the perfect title for what promises to become a series. Exactly what a Leapgate is will be explained in the sequel to this story.

Jake Crepeau  
August 2010

**WARNING:**

It's a sad commentary on the hypersensitivity of today's society that I have to write this warning to protect myself, but here it is: This story deals with racism. The attitudes and language portrayed are those of the era and don't even come close to my own feelings, so hold the flames, please. ;D

**Disclaimer**

_Voyagers!_ and its associated characters are the registered trademarks of Scholastic Productions, James D. Parriott Productions, and Universal-MCA Entertainment. This story is based on characters and situations created by James D. Parriott and is provided for entertainment purposes only; no copyright infringement is intended by the author.

_**Voyagers!  
**__**The Leapgate Chronicles #1:**_

**In All but Name and Blood  
****by  
****Jake Crepeau**

**Chapter 1**

_**Boston, Massachusetts; November 25, 1692**_

It was cold when they landed, their breath misting before their faces with each exhalation. The wind moaned mournfully through the mostly bare trees, and Jeffrey hugged himself in a vain attempt to ward off its bite.

"Definitely winter," Bogg remarked as he opened the Omni.

"Tell me something I don't already know," Jeffrey chattered.

"Okay. Were in Massachusetts, and it's 1692. Outskirts of Boston this time." They looked around the small farmstead. A cow and a few sheep ate from a haystack in a fenced paddock alongside the barn; several chickens in a small pen pecked at a scattering of cracked corn. There were a field of bare, broken cornstalks left from the harvest, and a full corncrib. The small house was tightly shuttered against the cold, though only a thin wisp of smoke rose from the chimney, indicative of a banked fire. "Now that's odd," Bogg muttered, starting toward the cabin.

"What is?"

"That." He pointed to the chimney. "Nobody banks a fire this late in the day, not when it's this cold."

"Maybe they're sick and couldn't build it back up this morning."

"Maybe." They approached the door and knocked; when nobody answered, Bogg pulled on the latchstring and opened it. Both were relieved to find the cabin empty; sickness in this time zone was frighteningly often fatal. They wondered where the people had gone, even as they perused the clothes press to see if there was anything that would fit them.

More appropriately clad and carrying their own clothes in a seed bag they'd found in the barn, they headed into the town proper. Jeffrey found it hard to identify this small rural community with the great city he knew, especially since there were so few people about, even among the shops. They found the reason in the town square, which seemed to be packed with more people than the town could possibly hold. A gallows had been erected at one end, and the mob jeered as a woman was escorted toward it.

"Let's see you raise the shade of Lady Phips to save you, witch!" someone taunted.

Jeffrey's jaw dropped. "Huh? Bogg, I thought we already fixed this!"

"Let's get out of here first, and then we'll talk," Bogg said and led the way. When they had left the crowd behind, he said, "I thought the witch trials were in Salem."

"That's where it started. By the time it was over, it had spread across three counties."

"What ended it, if we didn't?"

"It was a couple of things, but the last straw was when they accused Governor Phipses' wife after she signed a release for a friend while the governor was away. Now it sounds like she died before she could do that, and that's all wrong. But what I want to know is how come we're fixing this again."

"Parallel time streams," Bogg replied. At Jeffrey's blank look, he bent and drew a line in the dirt. "This is the main timeline. Every time a decision is made, it branches." He drew several lines branching off from it. "So if this one," he pointed to one of them, "is where we saved Abbiah Folger, we could be in _this_ one now, where something different went wrong. Any idea how Lady Phips might have died?"

After a long silent moment, Jeffrey shook his head. "I can't think of it. There's something in the back of my head, but I can't remember it."

"Well, can you at least give me a likely target date?"

_**Boston, Massachusetts; September 19, 1692**_

It was late afternoon this time, the daytime warmth of late summer just beginning to give way to evening's chill. Finding the governor's residence proved no difficulty; the stately three-story home with its whitewashed clapboard walls stood in sharp contrast to the rough plank structures and log cabins that made up the rest of the town. Large trees surrounded the manse, shading it in summer and sheltering it from the winter winds. Behind it were the stables and the carriage-house, and it was here the pair secured employment as stable hands. It wasn't a position likely to give them much access to the governor and his wife, but circumstances brought them into contact the very next day, when Sir William Phips ordered his coach brought around.

Bogg and Jeffrey were tapped to bring the horses out and hold them while a third hand hitched them up; as they worked, other servants brought the governor's luggage from the house and loaded it. When everything was done to the driver's satisfaction, he sent Bogg to inform the governor that his carriage was ready, then started the matched pair of chestnuts pulling the vehicle around to the front.

As he watched Bogg head toward the house, Jeffrey's peripheral vision registered movement near the rear door, and he turned to watch a young scullery maid come out, about his own age. She was using both hands to carry an oak bucket of dirty dishwater, which she emptied of its contents before turning to go back inside. Once again, both hands were occupied carrying the heavy wooden bucket, preventing her from raising her skirts to walk, so it was nearly inevitable that the hem ended up under her feet, almost tripping her. She recovered and made it inside without mishap, but the incident triggered the elusive memory, and Jeffrey darted after Bogg.

"I hope you remembered something, kid; I've got a feeling we're running out of time," the older Voyager remarked when his partner caught up to him.

"We _are_ out of time," Jeffrey said urgently. "She should be coming downstairs right now to see the governor off…"

He did not get a chance to finish; having also seen the scullery maid's near-accident, Bogg guessed the rest and bolted for the door.

He found Sir William waiting in the hall, and his wife just starting down the stairs. Whether or not the Phipses' status as Puritans was genuine, or merely a matter of political expediency, they had certainly adopted the manner of dress; Lady Phips' gown was a plain gray, modestly buttoned to the neck, though it was adapted to her station with a small amount of lace trim edging the collar and cuffs. She was halfway down when she turned to issue an order to the maidservant at the top of the stairs, but the order was never given, supplanted by a startled cry as she stepped on the hem of her skirts and began to fall. Bogg had started up the steps as soon as the lady had turned and was there to catch her as she stumbled. He maintained a steadying hold long enough for her to regain her balance.

"Thank you," she said breathlessly, a hand over her breast as if to keep her pounding heart from bursting through her chest. "I—"

She was interrupted by a sharp gasp from the maid still on the top landing. "I knew it!" the girl cried. "It's that wicked Goody Pryor; she's cursed you because you argued with her yesterday!"

"Such nonsense!" Lady Phips shot back. "Prudence is a God-fearing woman; she's no more a witch than you are, Mariah, and I don't want to hear another word about it!"

"Thank Heaven you're so quick," Phips told Bogg, relief evident in his voice as he took hold of his wife. "Are you all right, dear?"

With a bow, Bogg took his leave and rejoined Jeffrey outside. Checking to make sure no one else was in earshot, he opened the Omni and let out a sigh of relief. "Green light," he said.

"All _right,"_ Jeffrey breathed.

"I'm surprised you had such a hard time remembering something like that."

"It was only mentioned in passing in one book. I read so many others that I guess it kind of got buried; since she didn't actually get hurt, I guess nobody really thought it was important."

"A maid said something about someone named Prudence Pryor cursing Lady Phips because of an argument yesterday."

"I don't know the name, but that's okay; that must be the lady they were going to hang in that other time zone. The maid reported her, and she was arrested, but Lady Phips ordered her release."

Bogg nodded. "That fits; she told the maid that accusing Prudence was ridiculous."

"Yeah, well, _somebody_ believed it, because they accused Lady Phips. They figured if she would release an accused witch, she must be one herself. When Sir William got back and found out about it, he put a stop to the whole business." He let out a sigh of his own. "That's as close to a failed assignment as I _ever_ want to get."

"You and me both, kid," Bogg grinned as they headed back toward the stables, planning to Omni out once they were out of sight of the rest of the stable hands. "But I just learned something important."

"What's that?"

"Your history's not infallible."

"I never said it was!" Jeffrey protested.

Bogg chuckled. "No, but I was beginning to _think_ it was," he admitted.

Both whirled, startled, as an unfamiliar voice proclaimed, "And that's why Voyagers are _supposed_ to carry Guidebooks." The man approaching them held one in a hand. He was tall, with a mass of unruly brown hair. Though clean-shaven, his beard was evident in the blue shading covering his lower face, making Bogg's "five o'clock shadow" look like a fresh shave in comparison. His features managed to be soft and angular at the same time, giving him a somewhat wolfish appearance, which his good-natured grin accentuated as he held out a hand. "Voyager Walter Price," he introduced himself. "They sent me out to deliver your new Guidebook; since you took off so fast after the trial, they didn't have a chance to give it to you then." He handed over the Guidebook, which Jeffrey then took from Bogg. Both men chuckled at his eagerness as he began to leaf through it. "What happened?" Price wanted to know.

"Jeff couldn't remember until nearly the last minute what went wrong here."

"I almost let you down big-time," Jeffrey said quietly, looking up from the book.

"No way," Bogg reassured him. "It's not your fault historians in your time didn't think it was important. If you ask me, I think it's a miracle even one mentioned it."

"He's right," Price agreed. "If it wasn't for the original project that made direct observation of history possible, there's a lot of critical details that would have been lost entirely."

"Original project?" Jeffrey asked, smelling a tale of the Voyagers' origins. "Bogg, how come you never told me about that?"

"Because he doesn't know any more about it than I do," Price answered. "All any of us knows is that the Founder ran that project in the late twentieth century. That's all they tell you in Voyager school; apparently it's some kind of deep, dark secret. Even the folks with Archive access can't find any information about it."

"Makes sense it would be hidden," Bogg said. "I doubt that Drake's the only Voyager who ever went bad; imagine the havoc somebody like that could cause with that knowledge."

Price shuddered. "No, thanks! Look, I'd love to stay and chat, but I need to get back."

They made their way to a secluded area; after Price had left, Bogg and Jeff quickly changed back into their own clothes and Omni'ed out.

_**Tientsin, China; June 13, 1900**_

"_China?" _Jeffrey cried in dismay upon hearing their location. "Bogg, I don't know anything about China!"

"Then I guess it's a good thing they caught up to us to give us this," Bogg said and opened his Guidebook.

Jeffrey waited quietly as he read, feeling utterly useless for the first time. Idly he watched the column of soldiers marching past, with a civilian among those at the head. Men of four nations marched together; he easily spotted the American Marines, and he'd seen enough old movies to be able to identify the uniforms of England and France in the mix. Only when he saw their features, however, was he able to identify the fourth nationality as Japanese.

Under other circumstances, he probably would have been thrilled at the sight, but right now, all he could think about was the Guidebook. Its loss had been the reason the older Voyager had given up trying to leave him somewhere; what would happen to him now that Bogg no longer needed his input?

For his part, Bogg felt a thrill of elation as he glanced back and forth between the book and the marching troops. So much did he enjoy having Jeffrey at his side, he hadn't even realized he'd missed the book and the feeling of confidence it gave him. He wasn't sure if that was good or bad—he could think of a few people who would have called it a crutch—but he did know that he suddenly felt in control again. A wave of enthusiasm washed over him, which he managed to quell before the inevitable stream of words came tumbling out. The kid's ego had been bruised enough back there in Boston, and now, for the first time since they'd met, he could not provide any kind of assistance. If he said the wrong thing now, he could end up doing irreparable damage.

A name seemed to leap at him from the text, a Western name, and he frantically flipped pages. He didn't know who Herbert Hoover was, but every alarm in his head was going off—and no wonder, he thought as he read the entry on Hoover. A future American President in a war zone was a recipe for a red light if he'd ever heard one.

As if on cue, the shooting started; the troops scrambled for whatever cover they could find. Wordlessly, he passed the book to Jeff and bolted down the trail at a half-crouch, to spring cat-like at Hoover, hitting him from the side with enough force to carry them both a foot or two from the target area. They skittered behind a rock outcropping, joining an officer who was crouched there, attempting to return fire. "Are you all right?" the man asked.

Upon receiving a nod from the slightly dazed Hoover, Bogg replied, "We're fine, but we need to get him back to the city."

"No," Hoover interrupted firmly. "Captain, we still have two or three miles to go, and I'm not leaving 'til I get you there."

"Are there any more peculiarities in the territory between here and there?" the captain asked.

. "No; it's pretty much straightforward from here on out."

"Then we can find our own way from the maps you've provided. Your friend's right, Herb. We have to be here; you don't. Consider your duty discharged and get back to your family."

~oOo~

Jeffrey's heart was in his mouth as he watched Bogg push the civilian out of harm's way. Once he was sure the two men were out of immediate danger, he took a moment to peruse the entry in the open book Bogg had handed him, to find that, as a young mining engineer, Hoover had spent time in China working for a mining company there; when the Boxer Rebellion had broken out, he had been asked to guide troops of the Eight-Nation Alliance to their objective because of his intimate knowledge of the area. Once the shooting started, he was supposed to be sent back to the city, and Jeff knew that the Omni would probably remain red until they got him there. He looked up, trying to find Bogg, but he and Hoover had vanished from sight.

At that, the boy had all he could do to stay put. There was no way Bogg would leave him alone for long this close to a battlefield, he told himself. He had probably found better cover, either to wait things out or to make his way back here by a safer, if more circuitous, route. But waiting for him to return wasn't doing his nerves any good; he was on the edge of panic when the nearby underbrush began to rustle. He was halfway to his feet when Bogg called out to identify himself; a moment later, he emerged from the foliage with Hoover in tow.

~oOo~

Safely behind the city walls, they saw Hoover reunited with his family, then made their way to a deserted alley where they could Omni out unobserved. Noting Jeffrey's uncharacteristic silence, Bogg said, "Your school didn't teach Chinese history, did it?"

"No. I never even heard of the Boxer Rebellion or the Eight-Nation Alliance. We just studied American and Western European history, and most of that was just bare facts. Most of the details I got from extra reading, and from talking to my dad. He specialized in Western history, though, so I don't think he knew much about China, either."

Bogg decided it would be unwise to point out America's involvement as something Bill Jones likely _would_ have known about, and instead said only, "Well, I wouldn't worry about it if I were you. It's a big world, kid, and no one person can be expected to know all its history. That's what this is for," he added, indicating his Guidebook.

"Well, _I_ sure wasn't any help," Jeffrey groused. "That's the second time in a row I've just been dead weight."

Suddenly realizing exactly what the boy's problem was, Bogg dropped to one knee so he could meet his eyes. "Jeff, this is _not _a trade-off," he said. "Just because I have my Guidebook now doesn't mean I'm going to leave you behind. You said it yourself: We're family." His eyes dancing mischievously, he added, "You're stuck with me, kid."

Still sounding uncertain, Jeffrey asked, "Even if we keep landing in places where I can't help?"

"Your knowledge of history may be why I didn't leave you in France, but it's not why I keep you around now." Then a thought occurred to him. "Haven't you noticed that, until now, we've only been to places you knew something about?"

Jeffrey's eyes widened. "I never thought about it before, but you're right."

"Now I don't pretend to understand how the Omni's control system works, but if it always drops us right where we need to be, I think it's reasonable to assume it somehow knows where your expertise is, _and_ where it isn't. Now that we've got this book, maybe the system's decided it's time to broaden your horizons a little. And you know what that means, don't you?"

Jeffrey shook his head warily.

"It means it's time for you to start learning to use that book yourself."

As he'd expected, that brought a smile to the kid's face. As he got to his feet, Bogg knew he had to admit the kid's doubts were largely his fault. If he hadn't been so busy trying to prove things to himself, he might have realized Jeff's confidence was on thin ice before it had started to crack. It was going to take some very careful handling to get him through this, and the ex-pirate wasn't sure he was up to the task.

_**London, England; December, 1879**_

Voyager Sharon Fields picked herself up and looked around. She was in a back street of a city on a very cold night, and the gaslights did little to dispel the gloom. Big Ben's distinctive melody told her where she was even without her Omni's readout; the hour—ten at night—told her why no one was abroad. Opening the Omni, she made a face at the green light. She would have relished a vacation here; she loved Victorian England despite the attitude of most of its citizens about people of color. At least it wasn't quite so bad here as in the United States during the same period. Alfred had a preference for this time zone as well, and they planned to settle here together when they retired. But she had just come from Voyager Headquarters after recovering from injuries she'd sustained on her last assignment; there was no way she could justify a layover now. With a resigned sigh, she reset her Omni and was about to activate it when the sound of a voice calling her name caused her to whirl in startlement. Relaxing as she recognized the owner of the voice, she smiled at the tall, slender man who stepped out a doorway. "Alfred!" she cried happily as he caught her in his arms. Their lips met in a passionate kiss; when they came up for air, she said, "I missed you at Headquarters."

"What brought you there? Tell me inside; it's freezing out here."

_**Daytona, Florida; November 2, 1916**_

Jeffrey read off their location and let the red light speak for itself before he closed the Omni and handed it back to Bogg.

"That might have something to do with why we're here," Bogg remarked, indicating the grim scene across the road from where they'd landed.

A charred pile of rubble was completely unidentifiable as to what it might have been; a handful of black women was picking through the debris for anything they might be able to salvage from the ruin.

Before they could even start toward the site, however, their attention was claimed by a third Voyager's landing, only a few feet away from them.

She stood up, brushing the sandy soil from her jeans, and checked the holster-like affair holding her Guidebook before she looked around herself, freezing momentarily at the sight of the pair looking directly at her. Bogg held his vest open so his Omni was clearly visible on his belt, and the woman sagged in relief, eyeing her male counterpart appreciatively even as he admired her. Of average height, she wore her long dark hair in a single braid coiled twice around her head; its color framed a clear café-au-lait complexion. Like most women in the field, she wore no makeup, nor did she really need it. She was one who never needed to pluck her eyebrows, as they formed that perfect arch by nature alone; long, luxurious lashes of her very own framed clear brown eyes. "I'm Sharon Fields," she introduced herself.

"Phineas Bogg. And this is Jeffrey."

She raised one of those finely shaped eyebrows. "So this is our youngest Voyager," she said.

"You know about me?" Jeffrey asked in surprise.

A fleeting frown, hidden so quickly the boy wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it, crossed her face before she replied, "I just came from Headquarters; the place is still buzzing over the trial." She checked her Omni and asked, "Any idea what's going on?"

"We just got here ourselves," Bogg told her.

"Then why on Earth did this thing decide to drop me here?" she wondered.

"It's like when we dropped in on Olivia," Jeffrey pointed out, but Bogg shook his head.

"She was already well into her assignment, _and_ she was in trouble; we were sent to help her out of it. This…just doesn't make sense." He looked at Sharon, who was already leafing through her Guidebook. "We were just about to head over there to see if that's our problem."

"At least your instincts are right on the mark," Sharon replied. "According to this, that should be Faith Hall."

"Faith Hall never burned," Jeffrey said.

"What's Faith Hall?" Bogg said, deliberately resisting the urge to go for his own book. "Sounds like a church."

"Actually, it's a school for black girls," Jeffrey told him. "In a few more years, it's supposed to merge with Cookman College, which was a school for black boys." If anything, Bogg looked even more confused; Jeffrey rolled his eyes and said, "Do you know about the Jim Crow laws?"

His face cleared. "Segregation laws, weren't they?"

"Right. Before people built schools for them, black kids couldn't go to school at all, because 'white' schools wouldn't let them in. Mary McLeod Bethune founded hers in 1904; by 1910 it had outgrown the original building, and they moved into this one. Look it up," he added with a sly grin.

"Do I really need do?" Bogg shot back playfully. "It sounds like you're back in your element."

"You said you were going to show me how to use it," Jeffrey reminded him.

Bogg was just opening the book when Sharon looked up from her own. "So the rumors are true; you hardly need a Guidebook with him around, do you?"

"They might as well have saved themselves the trouble of chasing us down to give us a new one," Bogg replied proudly.

It was a statement that went further to ease Jeffrey's mind than all the earlier reassurances could have, and he pulled himself a little straighter. Sometimes grownups had a way of saying what you needed to hear, whether they believed it themselves or not, but when they said it to another grownup, you could be pretty sure it was true.

Bogg turned back to him and began showing him how Sharon had found the entry identifying the ruined landmark; as they read what its proper history should have been, Bogg paused at the mention of the Ku Klux Klan's Hallowe'en march on the school. The name sounded familiar… "Aren't those the guys in the white robes and the funny-looking hoods? Where'd they ever get a name like that?"

"My dad told me that nobody really knows for sure, but they think it probably came from a Greek word."

"So now we just have to find out how something only meant to scare them turned into that," Bogg concluded, and the trio crossed the road, causing the salvagers to eye him and Jeffrey suspiciously.

Sharon spoke first. "It's okay; they don't mean you any harm," she said.

One of the women smiled sadly. "Most folks around here don't," she said apologetically. "But after the other night, we're all a little skittish."

"What happened?"

"You've heard the Klan started up again last year, haven't you? Well, they marched in front of the school two nights ago, robes and burning crosses and all. Scared the living daylights out of us, though the students thought it was a Hallowe'en parade and wanted to watch."

"I wouldn't have thought they'd dare do a thing like this, not here," Sharon said. "Not with the people you've got on your side."

"I don't think they meant to," the woman replied. "But somebody hiding in those woods over there started throwing things at them. Hit the cross one of the men was carrying and knocked it right out of his hands and onto the front porch. We tried to put the fire out, but it spread so fast, the school was burning before we knew it. Thank God nobody was hurt, but Mary is going to be heartbroken when she gets back."

"We could nose around and see if we can find out who they were," Bogg suggested.

"Thank you for the offer, at least," the woman replied, "but don't waste your time. Rich and powerful friends or not, the law won't do a blessed thing about it, even if you can find those men. They never lift a finger when the victim is a Negro. Justice isn't for the likes of us," she added bitterly.

"That's just plain _wrong!"_ Jeffrey protested hotly.

It brought a wan smile to the woman's face. "Maybe with the help of people like you and your father, things will change someday," she told him, "but right now, we're on our own."

"Is Mrs. Bethune away?" Bogg asked.

"She left town on business the day before this happened," the woman replied, indicating the ruins around them. "We're expecting her back tonight."

"Is there anything we can do to help here?"

"Thank you kindly, but no. Even knowing what was here, we're having a hard time picking things out."

"Then we'll let you get back to work. Give our condolences to Mrs. Bethune when she comes back."

"I'll do that, thank you, Mr.—_Lord have mercy!"_ she cried when they vanished before her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_**Daytona, Florida; October 30, 1916**_

Typically for the location, the weather belied the season. The air was hot and humid, though it was still quite early; only the brisk sea breeze kept it from becoming completely unbearable.

Jeffrey reveled in his current outfit; overalls and a collarless work shirt made a refreshing change from the suits he'd ended up wearing most of the time recently. He'd never really minded wearing them at home, but as far as the suits of earlier times were concerned, he was in full agreement with Pip of Dickens' _Great Expectations: _They seemed specifically designed to restrict movement and to be as uncomfortable as possible. He was determined to enjoy his current comfort while it lasted.

"Must be Sunday," Sharon's remark snapped him out of his reverie, and he saw about thirty girls coming out of a nearby church in a single line, the first ones to exit waiting quietly for the remainder to join them.

Jeffrey recognized Mary Bethune herself escorting them and said, "Maybe not. Mrs. Bethune takes the kids to church every morning before school."

"But I thought you said it was a girls' school," Bogg said questioningly, indicating a boy about Jeffrey's age among the girls now walking down the road.

"That's her son Albert," Sharon answered before Jeffrey could even open his mouth.

A sudden shriek from one of the girls drew their attention; they were holding their hands over their heads and scattering in all directions to escape the shower of pebbles that rained down on them from the line of trees under which they were passing.

Mary glared up into the leafy canopy. "You boys stop that right now! Jeremy Whitmore, do you want me to talk to your father?"

"Go ahead an' try!" one of the teenagers sneered. "Like he's gonna listen to _you."_ He let fly with another pebble, which struck the woman squarely on the forehead.

At that, Bogg stepped in. "That's enough!" he shouted up at the young miscreants. "You get down from there right now, and leave these ladies alone!"

Bogg in full authority mode was something Jeffrey had only seen twice. The first time had been on one of his earliest adventures, and, though it hadn't been directed at him, it had still been enough to make him cringe. The second time, it had cowed the Emperor Napoleon himself. Thus it came as no surprise to him when the four youths dropped out of the trees like overripe apples and took off as fast as their legs would carry them.

Mary clapped her hands loudly. "All right, everyone, it's all over," she called. "Everyone back in line."

As the students gathered, Mary smiled at Bogg. "Thank you so much for your help, Mr….?"

"Bogg. Phineas Bogg. This is Jeffrey, and the lady helping your teachers restore order is Sharon Fields. It was our pleasure. Is everyone okay? Are _you_ all right?" he added, seeing the darkening bruise on her forehead where the pebble had struck.

Before she could answer, though, one of the teachers came over. "Susie and Amy are missing," she said.

"There they are," Jeffrey said, pointing toward a stand of palmetto bushes, whose fronds were interspersed with pale splashes of color from the girls' dresses. He started toward them, but Mary stopped him.

"Let one of the teachers get them; they're only six, and a mite leery of strangers."

_Especially white ones,_ Jeffrey thought a little sourly, though after what he had just seen, he couldn't really blame them. "Yes, ma'am," he said, moving aside to let one of the other women pass.

Mary's eyes widened in pleased surprise. "First your father calls us ladies, and here you are, calling me 'ma'am,'" she marveled. "Now that's what I call progress."

He remembered reading that she had considered it a red-letter day the first time someone had addressed her as "Mrs. Bethune" instead of her first name, or, worse, "girl." His return smile was a little sad that such common courtesies, taken for granted in his own time, should have to come as a pleasant surprise to anyone. "People are people," he responded, "and they all deserve respect, no matter what color they are. Someday everyone will realize it."

"Amen, child!" she agreed approvingly, then addressed all three. "Why don't you come to the school with us and have a bite to eat?"

"We'd really hate to put you to any trouble," Bogg protested.

"Nonsense. When we're already feeding over thirty people, how much trouble can three more be? I won't hear any more arguments."

With a shrug, Bogg ginned at his companions. "You heard the lady. Breakfast it is."

~oOo~

Though the servings were small, the quality of the eggs, biscuits, and grits more than made up for it. Jeffrey swore he could detect no difference between the grits and the cream of wheat he had sometimes eaten at home, though he knew the former was a kind of cornmeal.

When the table conversation "revealed" that the two adults were looking for work, Mary readily rose to the occasion. "I can't pay you much, and it's only temporary" she said to Sharon, "but I'll need an extra teacher for a few days. I'm leaving this afternoon on business and won't be back until the second. Mr. Bogg, can you patch a roof?"

"Just show us where the leak is, and we'll get right on it," he replied, causing his prospective employer to raise an eyebrow.

"So the boy works with you?"

"Yeah; he's getting to be a pretty good handyman," Bogg replied.

"And when was the last time he saw the inside of a classroom?" she wanted to know.

"A little over a year ago now. We're never in one place long enough for him to go to school; I see to his lessons myself." Her concern was a natural enough one for a teacher; when she looked skeptical, he added, "My father was a schoolmaster; trust me, the man would come back from his grave and haunt me if I let my own kid go without an education."

Jeffrey hid a grin as Bogg winked at him; both of them were certain that most of the things the older Voyager was teaching him would never be found on any curriculum Mary had ever seen.

~oOo~

They worked steadily until noon; after lunch, Mary insisted that Jeffrey be given an hour to rest before returning to work, only to be surprised once again to find that Bogg was in full agreement with her, though his reasons were not the same as hers: There were enough times when they had to keep going until they dropped that they gladly took any opportunity for rest that presented itself. They settled under a tree, and Jeffrey was asleep almost immediately, undisturbed by the sound of the girls playing. Bogg followed soon after.

It was the sound of a handbell summoning the students back to their classrooms that awakened him. Jeffrey didn't stir, however, and Bogg decided to let him sleep a little longer. Seeing Sharon approaching, he rose to his feet and went to meet her. "No class?" he asked.

"I've got one, but I have a minute or two before I have to be there. I asked one of the other teachers about those boys this morning, and what I heard isn't good. Their fathers are some of the most bigoted people in town, and Jeremy's is the worst of the lot. I looked them up in the Guidebook when I had a minute alone; it lists him as 'nonessential' and says he was suspected of being involved with the Klan, but it was never proven."

"What about Jeremy himself?"

"Nothing. He's just classed as a civilian, and that's all, but Arlene tells me they trust him even less than his father. _He_ knows better than to do anything overt, but she's not sure Jeremy even cares. They caught him throwing rocks at the windows last summer; she says it was just 'luck and God's good grace' that he didn't break any. To be honest, they were surprised the boys ran off when you yelled at them. How did you do that, anyway? You nearly had _me_ shaking in my shoes!"

"If you had to command the bunch of tars I had to work with before I was recruited, you'd be able to do it, too," Bogg chuckled.

"Bet it comes in handy keeping Jeffrey in line."

"I've never had to use it on him."

_"You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din,"_ she quoted Kipling, then added, "I think I'd go crazy if I had to have him underfoot all the time."

"He's not underfoot. He's a big help."

"You're going to tell me he always does what he's told and never gets into trouble?"

"Of course not; he _is_ a kid, after all. But he's also shaping up to be one of the best Voyagers since Isaac Wolfstein." He decided to forego mentioning that the boy had even earned the Wildman's approval.

"And that's not a biased opinion?"

"Well…maybe a _little,"_ Bogg allowed with a grin.

"I heard that one of your judges asked why you didn't leave him at an orphanage somewhere. I'd like to know the answer to that one myself."

"It's like I told them: I figured he'd be better off with me. You know what orphanages were like, the kind of abuse the kids had to put up with. I didn't have the heart to leave him at their mercy."

"Okay, I'll buy that. But what about when you want to be alone? I bet he's underfoot then."

"He knows when to make himself scarce. And he also knows when it wouldn't be a good idea. Professor Garth hit the nail right on the head when he said Jeff was wise beyond his years."

Sharon laughed. Was it his imagination, or was there a touch of cynicism in that laugh? "You're just not going to let any criticism of that kid stand, are you?"

"No father worth his salt would," Bogg said.

"So you really see him as your own?"

"Why not? He has no family. I look after him; I'm responsible for him. Last time I looked, that makes him my kid in the law of almost any time zone you care to name."

The last of the students had gone inside, and Sharon took her leave, but Bogg could have sworn there was something angry in her step as she walked away.

He remained deep in thought as he and Jeffrey returned to work; near the end of the day, they watched from their vantage point on the roof as Mrs. Bethune boarded a taxi, carrying a single small valise. Bogg gave a start when Jeffrey poked him. "Hey, no daydreaming on the job," the boy teased. "Especially not on a roof!"

"Not daydreaming," Bogg muttered through a mouthful of nails.

Jeffrey passed him another shingle. "What, then?"

"Sharon gave me some information while you were asleep," he replied; taking the nails out of his mouth, he repeated what she'd told him about the Whitmores.

"Non-essential? Civilian? What's all that mean?" Jeffrey asked.

"The Guidebook lists people in three categories," he explained, not missing a beat in his work. "There are 'major historical figures,' which is pretty self-explanatory. 'Non-essentials' are those that do something important, but it's something that anyone can take their place for, without changing history. Like when we took Eddie Rickenbacker's place to shoot down the Red Baron, or when you got the first rabies shot instead of whoever was supposed to get it."

Jeffrey nodded in understanding, and said, "And 'civilians' are people that don't figure in history?"

"Right. Whatever they do makes no difference in the scheme of things."

"Like my parents," Jeffrey said.

"What?" Bogg was a little taken aback by that comparison.

"You told me that Professor Garth said history wouldn't be changed if they lived."

"I also said that turned out to be questionable, remember?" Bogg told him. "He was looking at a falsified copy of your record; there's no telling what Drake changed in there. He put in some things that you're actually supposed to do, but may have changed _when._ He certainly left out the fact that you were supposed to be a Voyager." He reached into his apron for more nails and found it empty. "Run down and grab me some more nails, willya, kid?"

"Sure." He clambered down the ladder and filled his own apron with nails from the barrel, then stopped at the pump for a drink. It amazed him that the old expression, "from the wrong side of the tracks," had a literal origin. On one side of the railroad tracks that ran through the middle of town, the residents were well-to-do; their homes were in good repair, with all the modern conveniences, including gas stoves and indoor plumbing; a few of the wealthier homes even had electricity. On the other side, however, things hadn't changed since the previous century. The poor people relegated to that part of town couldn't afford to update their homes; they still got their water from outdoor pumps and wells and still used outhouses.

The sounds coming through the open windows told him that classes had just let out for the day; as he headed back toward the ladder, Sharon came out and stopped him. "Can you spare a minute to fill this bucket and bring it into the kitchen?"

He looked up toward Bogg, considering her request. His first reaction was to help her, but it was awfully hot up there, and he was sure Bogg would not be pleased to be kept waiting longer than necessary. "I really can't; Bogg's waiting for these nails."

She stopped him again as he started once more toward the ladder. "Wait a minute; I'd like to ask you something. Is it really true that Phineas has never used his command voice on you?"

Jeffrey grinned. "Scary, isn't it? I only had to hear it once to know I never wanted it aimed at me."

"So in a way, you could say that's what makes you mind him, right?"

"Well, maybe at first," he admitted. "I mean, going from thinking about tomorrow's quiz, to traveling through time was really weird; I was too scared to do anything _but_ listen to him. But then I got used to it; and once I got to know Bogg, I saw he was a heck of a lot better guardian than the ones I had in New York. Now listening to him is kind of automatic, like it was with my parents."

"But you don't always, do you?"

He snorted. "'Course not. I'm a Voyager; sometimes I have to ignore what he tells me and do what's gotta be done."

She stiffened a moment, then forced herself to relax. "And he doesn't get mad at you for showing him up?"

"Nah; only if it's something that might get me hurt."

"It must've been hard for him to know he couldn't do his job without you. I know I would die of embarrassment if I had to tell a tribunal that I needed a kid to help me."

_Does it say more about the boy, or about the Voyager so dependent on him?_ he remembered Drake sneering at the trial, and Brindle's incredulous, _You mean to say _Jeffrey_ became your Guidebook?_ "I gotta get these to Bogg," he said and darted up the ladder, his thoughts in a turmoil.

~oOo~

They were cleaning up at the pump when Albert came over; he stood for a moment looking with wonder at the white folks who would take orders from a Negro, then said, "'Scuse me, Mr. Bogg; Miss Tisdale said to send you to her office. She's the headmistress while my mother's away."

"Thanks; tell her we'll be right there," Bogg replied, and the boy went back inside to deliver the message.

Sharon was in the office as well when they arrived, and Arlene Tisdale counted out the day's pay for each of them. "We don't have anywhere for you to sleep here; Mrs. Bethune told me to pay you for the day so you could get rooms. Mrs. Donovan has a boarding house just across the tracks; she'll take both white and colored folks. There's water closets on every floor, and she even has bathing facilities."

"Sounds good to me," Sharon said.

"I could stand a nice, long soak," Bogg agreed.

"Me, too," Jeffrey said fervently. "How's the food?"

"Jeffrey!"

But Arlene was laughing. "Oh, leave him be, Mr. Bogg; he's a growing boy. Now I can't speak from experience, but I hear tell Lily Donovan is a first-rate cook. I think you'll like it. Now you folks have yourselves a good night, and I'll see you in the morning."

~oOo~

Lily Donovan was a plump, cheerful woman in her late thirties; her husband had gone to France to aid in the war against the Kaiser, certain that before much longer America was going to be dragged into the conflict. In his absence, she was supplementing the money he sent her in one of the few ways acceptable for a woman in that era. The Voyagers decided immediately that they liked her when she was genuinely apologetic that, though she accepted guests of both races, state law required her to house them in separate wings of the old house. Sharon shrugged it off, telling her companions that she'd known what she'd been letting herself in for when she'd chosen fieldwork. It left both of them with a new appreciation of the special kind of courage it took to go willingly into such situations.

Once Bogg and Jeffrey were settled in their room, Bogg took advantage of the quiet evening to give Jeff a more thorough overview of the sections of the Guidebook, then left him reading through the condensed version of the Voyager Code it contained. The boy was content with this until a paragraph referring to the loss of a Guidebook reminded him of his conversation with Sharon. "Bogg, does it ever bother you that you need my help? I mean, Drake made it sound like something to be ashamed of."

Bogg snorted. "Why should it bother me? It's no secret that I barely passed; nobody knew it better than the people in that courtroom. Whatever put that idea in your head?"

"Something Sharon said this afternoon. Bogg, I don't think she likes me much."

"I don't think she likes kids, period. Exactly what did she say to you, anyway?"

Jeffrey recounted the conversation, then added, "I think she got kind of mad when I said I was a Voyager. She got all stiff for a minute, like you do sometimes when somebody insults one of us."

Bogg frowned. "Y'know, kid, I'm starting to think maybe there's more to this than meets the eye."

"What do you mean?"

"She said almost the same things to me while you were asleep after lunch, after she got done telling me about the Whitmores. She seemed to get annoyed when she couldn't get me to say anything against you, or even agree with anything she said. And I don't like the fact that she asked you to do something for her when she could see you were busy."

"Maybe she just didn't think," Jeffrey shrugged.

"You don't really believe that, do you? I can tell you exactly what would've happened if you had carried that water for her. I would've been annoyed with you for making me wait, and you would've gotten mad at me because you would've felt that you'd done the right thing—and you would've been right. But we were both tired and overheated, and the whole thing would've gotten blown up out of proportion."

Jeffrey could only look sheepish, embarrassed that Bogg could read him that well.

His reaction drew a smile from Bogg. "It's nothing to be ashamed of," he said. "But what's bothering me is that I've got a sneaking suspicion that's what she was hoping would happen, and when you didn't fall into that trap, she tried to fill your head with doubts instead. I don't think she expected you talk to me about it, and that makes it more important than ever that you tell me about _anything_ that's bothering you, no matter how trivial it may seem. Deal?"

Jeffrey nodded. Bogg patted the boy's shoulder as he got to his feet. "Go on back to your reading then; I'm gonna go have a talk with Sharon."

~oOo~

He learned that segregation worked both ways when he tried to enter the north wing and was told by the regretful owner that she couldn't allow "white folks" in the "colored" wing, but she did offer to send for Sharon for him. His fellow Voyager met him in the foyer, and they went outside where they could talk in private.

Bogg wasted no words, but got straight to the point. "Sharon, I don't know what you're up to, but whatever it is, it stops right now."

She looked completely mystified. "What on Earth are you talking about?" she demanded.

"Don't play innocent. Jeffrey told me what you said to him this afternoon, and I don't appreciate it. This assignment's dicey enough without you playing mind games into the bargain."

"Oh, I see. Defending 'your kid' again." She didn't quite sneer the words. "Well, let me tell _you_ something, Mister. You're doing a rotten job of raising him. He has no idea of his proper place—Do you know he actually had the gall to call himself a Voyager?"

Bogg shrugged. "That's because he is."

"He is _not._ He's—what, twelve, maybe thirteen? He belongs in the Page Complex with the rest of the junior recruits."

"Look, I understand that you don't like kids. You hide it well enough most of the time, but I've seen the way you look at those girls at the school when they can't see you. But whether you like it or not, the Council says Jeff's a Voyager, and that means he's entitled to the same consideration and help from you as I am. You don't have to like him, but you _do_ have to work with him."

"As I understand it, it was just _one_ Councilor."

"You think he came to that decision by himself? He was one of three judges, remember, and you gotta know they conferred with the rest of the Council on something that important."

"Important," she huffed. "Don't you think that's inflating things just a bit?"

"You haven't seen his future record; I have—at least part of it. The way Professor Garth sounded, I'd say he considered it pretty important."

"Well, you know the Council has been known to reverse decisions before. Think about _that _for a while." With that, she turned on her heel and stormed off.

_Why me?_ Bogg groaned inwardly, shaking his head as he went back inside.

~oOo~

_Jeffrey lay sprawled on the floor of his father's study, reading a book from the copious collection therein—he was allowed any book he could reach without using the stepladder; those on the upper shelves were still beyond his advanced reading level. Bill Jones, at his desk, was grading papers; both looked up when Kathy came in to call her "boys" to dinner. Jeffrey got up and carefully put the book away, then followed his parents out of the room…_

_…only to walk into darkness that was lit only by the flickering orange flames from under the hood of the wrecked car, revealing a man wrestling with a door damaged beyond operation. He was trying unsuccessfully to kick the glass out of the window when the fire found the fuel line and raced along it to the tank, which ruptured with a dull _whump,_ engulfing the entire car and camper in flames and spraying burning fuel over the occupants' would-be rescuer. Jeffrey let out a cry of anguish and rushed toward the burning car as the stranger from nowhere rolled on the ground to extinguish his clothes. The boy drew nearer the roaring inferno, mindless of the heat that singed his eyebrows and scorched his hair, until a pair of hands closed on his arms and pulled him back. He struggled frantically in the man's iron grip; the stranger shook him gently, then drew him into a comforting hug. "Easy, kid," he murmured softly…_

"…Wake up. It's just a dream."

The chilling images fled, and Jeffrey woke to find himself in Bogg's arms. He remained there until the wave of trembling passed, then let out a long sigh as he straightened. "Been a while since I had one of those," he murmured.

"Want to talk about it?"

He shook his head. "Not right now," he said; his thoughts were in a turmoil, and he needed time to sort them out. It was the first time he had dreamed about the accident directly, rather than couched in dream-symbols, and even at that, it was a major departure from what had actually happened. There had been no one else but him, frantically running along the side of the road, trying to flag down someone, anyone, but no one had stopped until a state trooper had come along, and by then it had been far too late.

Of course, he knew who the "stranger" was, and he knew just enough about dreams to understand that this one had not been so much about the loss of his parents as it had been about the conflict in his heart between them and Bogg, a conflict that left him with a prickly, torn-in-two kind of pain like that he'd felt at the trial when Bogg had promised to make them send him back to before his parents had died. It had seemed cold comfort at the time, reawakening the old guilt he'd thought he'd put away for good when he'd rejected the opportunity to stay with his great-grandparents in order to remain with Bogg.

Was this what people called "letting go"? Everyone always made it sound like a good thing to do, but it felt wrong somehow.

He looked up to find Bogg sitting on the other bed, leafing through the Guidebook, and he held his tongue, reluctant to disturb him when he was obviously looking for something. They still didn't have a plan, and they were running out of time.

But he'd promised to tell Bogg if anything was bothering him. He drew breath to speak, then hesitated once more, not sure how to begin.

Bogg heard it and set the book down. "Ready to tell me?" he encouraged.

"It…the dream…it was different this time," he finally got the words to come. "You were there."

"You know I would've tried to help if I had been."

"Yeah, but then I might not be a Voyager now."

The confusion was evident in his voice, and it tore at Bogg's heart; he got up and went over to sit next to him. "There's nothing wrong with feeling that way," he said. "It doesn't mean you love your parents any less."

"But in the courtroom, when you said you'd make them take me to before the accident, I wasn't even sure I wanted them back." His voice broke, tears very near the surface.

"Of course you weren't," Bogg consoled him. "The price was 'way too high. That's a kind of choice nobody should ever have to make; I'm ashamed it was Voyagers who tried to force it on you."

"No. Just _one_ Voyager," Jeffrey said firmly. "If there's anything to be ashamed of, it's that they made him one in the first place."

"It's my fault they did."

"Don't you even think that!" the boy protested.

"If I'd turned him in when I first found how he'd cheated—"

"You were just trying to do what you thought was right. How were you supposed to know it would turn around and bite you in the tuba?"

Bogg ruffled the boy's hair. "Go back to sleep, you little toad," he chuckled fondly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_**London, England; December 1879**_

Sharon looked uneasily at the building before she entered, climbing the stairs to Alfred's flat. Ongoing relationships between Voyagers in the field was strictly prohibited under Article Three of the Voyager Code; however, because of the fact that Alfred wasn't a field worker, theirs fell into a sort of gray area. They had gotten away with it so far only because Sharon never went to Headquarters specifically to see him. Her race presented special dangers, particularly in the United States prior to the mid-1960s, so severe physical injuries had her back at VHQ Medical more often than most—the medical facilities at field offices weren't as extensive as those at headquarters—and she had found a silver lining in that particular cloud in the opportunity to be with Alfred. Most times, there weren't any chances for things to get physical between them, so when they did, it was the sort of thing that the authorities dismissed as merely casual.

Until a few weeks ago, Alfred would never have been caught dead in the field, which made it difficult for her to believe that he'd fled Headquarters as the rumors had it, much less the other things those rumors had to say. He'd been quick to reassure her in that regard, explaining that he'd been set up, and that he'd absconded in order to find the evidence he needed to clear himself. That evidence, he'd explained, was Jeffrey Jones himself; he needed to bring the boy back to Headquarters. The problem was Phineas: An intense rivalry had existed between the two men in Voyager school, because of which the former pirate was too ready to believe the worst of him and was not inclined to do him any favors. So Alfred had instructed her to bring the boy to him here, should she run into the pair; only the luck of the draw had dropped her virtually into their laps when she'd left his flat.

The first opportunity had presented itself this very afternoon, when she'd spoken to Jeffrey at the pump, but there had been too many eyes that might have seen them dematerialize. It had been one thing to Omni out of the first time zone, since that one would no longer exist once they completed their assignment; it was another to do it in a time zone that would continue after they left it. Sometimes there was just no avoiding it, but this had not been one of those times. So she had maneuvered to cause an argument between the two; knowing kids, if things got heated enough, Jeffrey would have walked off in a huff. At that point, she could have followed him and snatched him once they'd been away from other eyes, but the boy had proven too cagey for that to work. So she'd tried a different approach, but she hadn't counted on the level of trust that existed between those two. The doubts had been planted, that had been clearly evident in his eyes, but she had never expected him to talk to his guardian about things she'd thought he would be too embarrassed to mention.

So now she had to tell Alfred what had happened and ask for advice, and that was where the situation had the potential to bite them both: The next time her mission record was reviewed, they would see this side trip in her Omni's memory unit, precisely the sort of thing Article Three was intended to prevent. It would cause them to see her earlier visits with him in an entirely different light, and probably dismiss both of them from the ranks.

She heaved a resolute sigh and knocked on the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_**Daytona, Florida; October 31, 1916**_

Jeffrey woke to a persistent, irregular dripping of water on his face; his eyes still closed, he reached up one hand to wipe it away. This action, however, was followed by a sudden stream, and he sat up with a yelp.

Unable to hold it in any longer, Bogg burst out laughing as he gave the wet handkerchief another quick squeeze, releasing a second stream onto the boy's tousled curls.

"I'll get you for that, Bogg!" Jeffrey threatened playfully. "When you least expect it!"

"I've heard that song before," Bogg grinned. "C'mon and get dressed; I don't know about you, but I think breakfast smells too good to pass up."

Jeffrey took a whiff and grinned back; if his appetite had still been asleep, it was wide awake now. Then he glanced out the window and saw by the sun that it had to be about seven o'clock. "Sharon's already gone to the school, huh?" he remarked.

"Probably." _I sure hope so,_ was the thought he kept to himself.

"Did you get to talk to her last night?"

"Yeah. If we'd been someplace where we didn't have to worry about being overheard, you probably wouldn't have stayed asleep long enough to have that nightmare."

"That good, huh?"

Bogg snorted. "She was more than just 'kind of mad' at you; she was _livid._ The fact that the Council sent you back out with me really put a bee in her bonnet for some reason. Remember what Drake and Susan told us about a 'new mandate' that had both field workers and administrators behind it?"

"Yeah."

"Well, just because Drake turned out to be a hypocrite doesn't mean the policy will be abandoned; there are people who really do believe in it, and I'm starting to think Sharon's one of 'em."

"So what's that got to do with me?"

"I've never heard of a field worker who didn't go through Voyager school first, and that's just for starters. There's more that I don't have time to explain right now, not if we want to eat before we have to be at work," Bogg told him. "But what I told her goes for both of us, too: We don't have to like her, but we do have to work with her."

"Boy, this is one assignment I'll be glad to see the end of," Jeffrey grumbled as he tied his shoes.

~oOo~

It was midmorning when they completed the work and went to tell Arlene. "You two work so well, I'm almost sorry we don't have anything else for you to do," she smiled as she paid them.

"I'm just glad we could help," Bogg replied, then sobered. "Miss Tisdale, I've heard a rumor that I think you should know about. There's word the Klan may be marching on your school tonight."

"Miss Fields said that same thing this morning." She let out a sigh. "I knew there was going to be trouble when I heard they'd started up again last year."

"Before we go, I'd like to fill your fire buckets and leave them on the front porch. I don't think they'll actually try to start a fire," he hastily reassured her, "but they do carry burning crosses, and accidents happen."

She nodded. "That would probably be wise; I'll show you where we keep them."

_"That's_ the plan?" Jeffrey asked when they were done and headed toward the boarding house.

"It's a start, at least," came the reply. "Once we get to our room, we'll check the Guidebook and see if there's anything new."

"Huh? Bogg, it's a _book; _how can there be anything new?"

"How, I don't know; they didn't tell us. Said it was beyond the scope of the course. But the main section updates itself automatically; that's why it's not a good idea to try to read it straight through. You end up confusing yourself."

"Boy, sometimes it seems like VHQ is half-magic."

Bogg chuckled. "Now you know how I felt when I first got there."

"What was it like? C'mon, Bogg, you've never told me, and all I've ever seen of it is the courtroom."

~oOo~

"…so I told him, "They're probably still cleaning your blood off the walls."

Jeffrey's eyes went wide. "You're kidding! You actually _said_ that to a guy who just lost both legs? What'd he say?"

"Well, he was kind of startled for a second, and then he started laughing. We were best friends from that moment on."

"So he stayed at Headquarters, huh?"

"Yeah, but not because of his legs. They gave him a pair of…what'd he call it…_bionic_ legs that were as good as the real thing. He could've gone into the field if he wanted, but he decided he wanted to work the engineering end of it."

"Wow! Real bionic legs? Like the Six Million Dollar Man?"

"Who?"

"This TV show that was on when I was little…"

Bogg cut him off as they approached the boarding house. "Tell me later; these people don't even have radio yet."(1)

The bell over the door rang as Bogg pushed it open; Mrs. Donovan came into the foyer at the sound. "You're back early," she greeted them cheerfully.

"We finished the job," Bogg told her with a shrug.

"Well, go on and get cleaned up; there's a buffet-style lunch set out in the dining room. If you're interested in a movie, there's a theater on Main Street; the matinee starts at one-thirty."

Jeffrey's face lit up. "Can we, Bogg?"

"I don't see why not; we've got plenty of time."

~oOo~

With classes over for the day, Sharon was on her way out the door when she heard the sound of breaking glass from the kitchen. Diverting her steps, she looked in to see that someone had dropped a jar of honey. "Need a hand, Colette?" she asked the teacher who was carefully plucking shards of glass out of the sticky mess.

"No; we're fine," came the reply. "But this was the last jar of honey, and we were going to make some honey cakes for tonight."

"Want me to run down to the store and pick up another jar?"

"I don't think it's in the budget, Sharon."

"Don't worry about it; I'll pay for it myself." She turned and was out the door before Colette could protest.

She thoroughly hated those assignments where she had to deal with kids, Sharon reflected as she headed for the grocery store. At least this batch was fairly well-behaved. On an earlier assignment, in 1935 California, she had dealt with the Switzer brothers, Carl and Harold, ensuring that they won their roles in the _Our Gang_ series. By the end of it, she had been ready to strangle the entire pack of Little Rascals with her bare hands.

But then there were Jeremy Whitmore and his gang, she thought as she spotted those boys further down the street. From everything she had heard, they could make even the Little Rascals look like angels, and that was saying a lot. What she saw as she reached the grocery store made her duck quickly inside; she could swear that was Alfred who had just come out of the side street, right in front of the seven boys. Peering out the door, she watched as he spent a few minutes talking to them. When he turned and walked away from them, she pulled back inside before he drew close enough to see her.

The one thing all field workers had in common was a finely tuned "gut instinct," and right now hers was telling her that something was horribly wrong. Alfred had asked where Phineas and Jeffrey were staying; once she had told him, he'd said he would take care of the matter, presumably planning to come get the kid himself. So why was he talking to the Whitmore gang? Worried, she made her purchase and hurried to the school to drop it off, then made for the boarding house at a run. There, she consulted her Guidebook and found that Jeremy's entry had been updated. Her features substantially paler than normal, she set about gaining access to the south wing.

~oOo~

Jeremy and his friends were discussing their plans for the evening. At fifteen and sixteen, they were too old for guising,(2) but still young enough to enjoy the mischief and petty vandalism long associated with Hallowe'en. Soaping windows, chalking walls, and upsetting outhouses where they were still in use were old favorites, and they were gleefully plotting their targets for tonight's merry mayhem when a man tumbled out of a side street, landing right in front of them.

"Are you okay, sir?" Jeremy asked as he helped him up.

The dark-haired stranger brushed off the trousers of his odd-looking suit. The coattails and the satin stripe on his trousers suggested formal wear, as did the six-point collar, but none of them had ever seen such a large, elaborate bowtie. "I'm fine," the man answered. He gave the group a measuring gaze, then said, "I believe you may be just the young men I'm looking for."

~oOo~

Bogg and Jeff were both still laughing when they came out of the theater. _Manhattan Madness_ might not have been one of Douglas Fairbanks' best roles, but the comedy had proven once again the truth of the old saw about laughter and medicine.

"You ever see a silent movie before, kid?" Bogg asked as they headed back toward the boarding house once more.

"Yeah; one of the TV stations back home used to show them sometimes. They had a Charlie Chaplin week on one of them the week before you fell into my room."

"Isn't he the guy with the cane?" Bogg then launched into an imitation of the actor's trademark waddle that had the boy laughing again.

"Bogg, that was perfect!" he gasped when he could talk again.

"Every Voyager has to be at least part actor," Bogg told him with a shrug. "I thought you'd figured that out by now."

They were still discussing their favorite scenes when they walked into their room, only to stop dead in their tracks to see Sharon waiting for them, her apron and the bucket of cleaning supplies she'd left by the door explaining how she'd gained admittance to the south wing. Both sobered instantly at the look on her face. "What's wrong?" Bogg demanded as he shut the door.

"We have a problem," she said. "The Guidebook's been updated. Jeremy's listed as a major historical figure now; it says he and his friends attack the one who chased them away from the girls yesterday. That's you, Phineas. Now we may not agree over Jeffrey here, but I've never wished him ill. You have to leave him here during the march tonight."

It was only with effort that the boy held his tongue, and Bogg rested a hand momentarily on his shoulder before he asked Sharon, "Any ideas for a plan?"

"Not really," she admitted.

"Me, either, outside of waiting in the woods to stop whoever decides to throw things at the marchers."

"It's as good a plan as any," Sharon nodded. "We just have so little information this time, I feel like we're taking shots in the dark."

"We are," Bogg remarked. "What'll you be doing?"

"I'll be just inside the front door, ready to run out and grab one of those buckets if things go wrong," she replied as she retrieved the cleaning supplies. "I'd better get out of here before they figure out I'm not a maid."

"You're not going to listen to her, are you?" Jeffrey asked once she had left.

Bogg leafed through his own Guidebook; finding what he was looking for, he handed it to him. "You tell me."

_Whitmore, Jeremy  
__Born: March 21, 1900, Daytona, Florida.  
__Died: November 1, 1980, Daytona, Florida.  
__Father: Andrew Whitmore.  
__Mother: Jennifer Martin  
__Status: Major historical figure._

_Summary: This individual is noted for a very vindictive nature, and for carrying out his vendettas in a violent manner. On Hallowe'en of 1916, he attacked a person who, a day earlier, had prevented him and his friends from harassing students from Mary McLeod Bethune's school._

"But _you're_ the one that chased him and his friends away yesterday," Jeffrey protested. "How does that make him a major historical figure when nobody knows about Voyagers?"

"Because a Voyager is a major historical figure by definition."

"Because of what we do?"

"Yeah. So if somebody does something that could prevent a Voyager from carrying out his assignment, that automatically makes that person a major historical figure."

"But that means—Bogg, you can't go out there alone! There were _seven _of 'em yesterday; if they all come after you, you won't have a chance!"

"That's if they can find me in those woods in the dark," Bogg returned.

"So if you're the one they're after, why'd Sharon hint they might come after me?"

"They saw you with me. Ever hear of 'guilt by association'?"

"They can't come after me if I'm at the school. Some of the richest people in the country are supporting it; that's why even the Klan never tried to do more than scare the people there."

Bogg shook his head. "The teachers say that's true of the adults, but not the kids. We can't take the chance," he said very seriously. "Not when I've seen some of the things you're supposed to do. I'm sure you know what the Code has to say about that."

Jeffrey's face fell. "You have to make sure I'm around to do them," he replied unhappily.

"Now tell me how that applies to your own duty as a Voyager."

After a moment's thought, he slowly answered, "I guess it means that since I know I _have_ a future, it's my job to make sure I'm around for it, too."

Bogg's smile told him he'd given the right response, but the older Voyager wasn't done yet. "And what do you think that means?"

The boy hung his head. "It means I have to stay put when you tell me to."

"Voyager's honor?" Bogg pressed.

Jeffrey's head snapped up in shock. Far more than a simple invoking of one's honor, the phrase was a direct reference to the Voyager oath, an oath he hadn't taken yet. But then he remembered what he'd read just the previous evening, about the field training of Voyagers: _…the safety and well-being of the recruit becomes the field worker's responsibility… _Between that and something he'd been told not too long ago—if he fouled up badly enough, Bogg could be penalized for it—he realized that, in some convoluted way he was barely able to understand, much less put into words, it was Bogg's honor that was being invoked as much as his own.

The silence dragged on as he pondered these things, finally broken by Bogg's prompt. "Jeffrey?"

Clearly he wasn't going to let it go until he got the promise; reluctantly, Jeffrey nodded.

"Say it."

He opened his mouth, then left his jaw hanging slack, his eyes widening as the full significance of the moment struck him. For the first time, Bogg was treating him like a peer! A broad grin split his features; his eyes snapped with pride. "Voyager's honor," he nodded, voice and motion firm.

1 The radio had been invented much earlier, but didn't make it into public use in the US until after WW I.

2 An early name for trick-or-treating, a practice still in its infancy at that time.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Bogg perched in a tree, hidden among its leaves. Beyond the edge of the wood, a dozen men marched in a circle in front of the school, their white garb catching and reflecting the moonlight so that they almost seemed to glow, the ghostly illusion aided by the flickering light of their fiery crosses. It was no wonder the uneducated and superstitious people of the post-Civil-War years had found them so terrifying, Bogg reflected; he knew he certainly would have in his own pre-Voyager days. But that was definitely not the case here; the upstairs windows were crowded with laughing, clapping schoolgirls, gleefully cheering what they thought was a Hallowe'en parade held just for them.

He didn't know what he expected, but five teenagers led by Jeremy wasn't it. Two of them carried baseball bats, and he knew they were looking for him.

The youths paused in their hunt to watch the march, oblivious to their quarry almost directly overhead. From his vantage point, Bogg could see all of them tense up with anger as they watched the students.

"Stupid little pickaninnies," one of them growled. "They need a lesson, don't they?"

"I got an idea," another said, picking up a piece of deadfall.

"Whatcha gonna do, Mike?"

"Five cents says I can hit one of those crosses and knock it onto the porch."

"Two hundred pounds says you don't," Bogg said, dropping from his perch to land on top of the unsuspecting troublemaker.

Three of the startled youths, including one of the armed ones, took off; Jeremy stood his ground, raising his bat. But Bogg was ready for him, springing to his feet and grabbing the bat from him with one hand and catching him across the jaw with a right cross. He pulled the punch in deference to the kid's age, but it was still enough to knock him to the ground, dazed. "Not so tough when your victim can fight back, are you?" he said and hurled the bat, javelin-like, deeper into the woods.

"Hey! That bat cost almost _three dollars!"_ Jeremy protested.

"Then I guess you better go look for it, huh?" Bogg replied offhandedly.

Jeremy nudged Mike with his foot. "C'mon, Mike; gimme a hand. That jackass just threw my bat into the woods; my old man'll kill me if I lose it."

Bogg watched for a moment as the pair vanished deeper into the brush. The Omni showed green when he opened it, but it didn't lift his spirits as it usually did. His instincts were telling him that there was still something wrong, but how was that possible with a green light? He pondered the question as he began to make his way back to the boarding house; before he had taken ten steps, it hit him. Seven kids, Jeffrey had said, but there had only been five. A foreboding chill settled in his stomach, and he broke into a run.

~oOo~

Jeffrey's first days as a Voyager had been scary; then it had been a grand adventure. Finally, reality had settled in as he'd perceived the great responsibility and accepted it. As he read through the Code section, that perception matured. There was the sober realization that Bogg really _had_ violated the Code in allowing him to help shoot down the Red Baron—_the safety and well-being of the recruit becomes the field worker's responsibility. _Normally, that recruit would be a graduate, a Voyager who had taken the oath; it was that fact that had opened his eyes to the significance of Bogg's demanding a promise on Voyager's honor. It didn't make staying behind any less of an ordeal, but the memory was still enough to make him smile as he got up to answer nature's call.

The water closet was at the end of the hall; _en suite_ bathrooms were still several years in the future. It wasn't the most convenient arrangement in the world, but it beat the more primitive alternatives. He came out chuckling to himself at a limerick on the subject he'd once heard; his amusement, however, was cut short by the end of a baseball bat driven deep into his midsection. He doubled over, retching; a double-fisted blow rushed up at his face and knocked him to the floor, stunned. All he could do was curl himself into a protective ball as the bat and someone's feet connected again and again, until darkness claimed him, and he knew no more.

~oOo~

A powerful, extremely unpleasant smell invaded the warm, dark cocoon, pulling him toward awareness once more. He grimaced and turned away in a futile attempt to evade the pungent odor, resisting the return to awareness, where pain awaited him. As if from a great distance, an unfamiliar voice enjoined him to wake up, and he tried to shut it out, but then a voice he knew spoke to him, and the battle was lost. His eyes opened to blurred faces; he blinked hard, trying to get them to focus. A stranger was sitting on the edge of his bed, a man in his late thirties wearing a pale gray suit; he had dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard. The stethoscope hanging around his neck identified him as a doctor; he was capping a small bottle, and Jeffrey realized that he'd been awakened by the sharp tang of smelling salts.

Bogg was hovering over the doctor's shoulder, the worry etched across his face clearing as he watched the boy's eyes start to track once more. "Hey, kid, welcome back," he grinned in obvious relief.

"I feel like one big bruise," Jeffrey groaned.

The doctor chuckled. "That's essentially what you are right now," he said, completing his examination as he spoke. "Bruises, abrasions, and a mild concussion. Not to mention a really magnificent shiner," he added with a wink, making both Voyagers laugh. He put his stethoscope away and snapped his bag shut as he rose to his feet. "Seriously, though, it's a good thing your neighbors were able to stop those boys, or things would have been much worse. But as it is, a few days of bed rest, and you'll be good as new." He turned to Bogg and added, "I'll come back to check him again on Friday; in the meantime, keep an eye on him. If he shows any confusion or memory loss, call me at once."

Bogg nodded; he'd dealt with concussions before and knew they could worsen a day or two after the initial injury.

When the doctor had left, Jeffrey said, "Friday? That's three days; we can't stay here that long."

"Trust me, going through the Cosmos with a concussion is no fun," Bogg told him. "Besides, do you really think you could handle a landing right now?"

The thought of the jarring made him grimace. "No," he admitted.

"Then don't argue; just enjoy the rest while you can."

"So what happened at the school?"

Bogg recounted the events; when he was done, Jeffrey furrowed his brow. "So if we hadn't been here, they wouldn't have been there to throw stuff in the first place?"

"They probably _would_ have," Bogg replied. "It's Hallowe'en; they would have been out to play some pranks anyway, and still would have stopped to watch the march. But I wouldn't have been there to stop them from throwing things when they got mad because the girls weren't scared."

"What about Sharon? Is she all right?"

"She was never in any real danger. Speaking of her, though, I need to meet her downstairs. Will you be okay while I'm gone?"

"Yeah," Jeffrey nodded, then groaned as the motion triggered a wave of vertigo. "It's not like I even _want_ to get out of bed right now," he added.

"I shouldn't be gone long." His thoughts were dark as he headed downstairs. He wanted to know how those boys had known where to find Jeffrey, and he suspected Sharon knew the answer.

~oOo~

He watched her face go pale when he told her what had happened and decided he'd been hasty; even the best actors couldn't fake that kind of reaction, but her answer surprised him.

"Phineas, I have a confession to make," she said uneasily. "I know you think I had something to do with it, and it turns out you're right—but not in the way you think," she added hastily at the outrage on his face. "I didn't tell those boys where to find Jeffrey."

"Of course not," Bogg realized. "There's no way they would have listened to you; you would have ended up in worse shape than he is."

"And I just got out of the hospital, thank you very much. But I think my boyfriend told them, after I told him. I had no idea he would do anything like this; I honestly thought Jeffrey would be safe in your room."

"Wait a minute; I feel like I've missed something. You have a boyfriend here?"

"No; he's in another time zone. And before you ask, yes, he's a Voyager. It's a _very_ long story; the short version is, the man used me, and it's obvious my feelings for him are _not_ mutual." Her voice shook as that realization caught up with her and snapped her heart in two.

"Some guys can be real jerks," Bogg said sympathetically, ignoring the fact that she'd just admitted to a Code violation, though he could think of one slimy so-and-so of a Voyager who would probably drag her before the Tribunal—

He froze. "Sharon, your boyfriend's name wouldn't happen to be _Drake,_ would it?"

"Yes; Alfred Drake. He's—"

"Code Violations Prosecutor; I know. Believe me, you're not the first one he's lied to; he had nearly the whole Council eating out of his hand until his own diary exposed him."

"He told me it was all a frame, and I believed him. Love really is blind, isn't it?" she added bitterly.

"It's not your fault; that guy could con George Parker(1) himself."

"So his whole 'discipline and order' shtick was just a front, wasn't it?"

"Yeah; there's no telling what he was really up to."

"But he had the right idea; I really do believe that."

"Well, 'rules are made to be broken' certainly isn't true, but his 'rigid adherence' policy isn't right, either."

"I see that now," she agreed. "I mean, this whole incident is a prime example of why Jeffrey belongs at VHQ; he's too young to be exposed to such risks." She held up a hand to forestall the angry outburst she could see gathering in Bogg's flashing eyes. "But I can also see that it would be cruel to both of you to take him away. It's easy to see why everybody back at VHQ is so sure you're eventually going to adopt him."

"Am I that transparent?" he grinned. "I have been considering it. But he's still dealing with losing his parents; the trial reopened a lot of old wounds. I think it's too soon to make the offer."

"You may be right," Sharon allowed. "On the other hand, it could be just what he needs to finish healing. Hey, I may not like kids, but that doesn't mean I don't understand them," she added at his surprised look. "Best get back to him, though; it's not a good idea to leave him alone for long with a concussion."

"I know. Listen, if I don't see you before you leave, it's been good working with you."

"No, it hasn't," she laughed. "You'd've been glad to strangle me as soon as look at me. But I do appreciate the thought."

Her laughter died almost as soon as she turned away. The things they had been saying about Alfred were true after all; Phineas had caught him out, and he was nothing more than a fugitive now, probably hoping for an opportunity for revenge. It had not been her imagination, that had indeed been Alfred she had seen talking to the boys. It was her fault he had known where to find Jeffrey in the first place, though; if she hadn't told him…

That was water under the bridge, she told herself firmly. But she could correct that mistake, or at least make up for it.

_**London, England; December, 1879**_

How he wished he could have watched Bogg and that brat of his get their comeuppance! Drake allowed himself a gleeful smirk at the thought as he gathered the few belongings he refused to do without. But it just hadn't been feasible, not once he'd learned they had split up. He would have settled for seeing the look on Bogg's face when he found what they'd done to the boy, but he hadn't survived as long as he had without knowing when to cut his losses. Bogg would have been in a murderous rage, and it would have been a Very Bad Idea for him to be within the man's reach at that point.

He had seen Sharon duck into a store when he'd been talking to those boys, so he knew she had recognized him. There was no doubt that she would put two and two together once she learned about what those boys would do. She was law-abiding to a fault, and that had made it laughably easy to manipulate her, but the jig would be up after this, and it was a safe bet she would go straight to the authorities at VHQ and tell them exactly where to find him. It was time to relocate.

_**Daytona, Florida; October 31, 1916**_

"She knew, didn't she?" Jeffrey said when Bogg got back.

"Actually, she didn't," he replied, and the boy believed him. He'd never seen anyone who could read people the way Bogg could; it was what made him so good at what he did. "I am a little worried about something, though," the older Voyager went on. "She said she realizes now that it wouldn't be right to separate us, but she still believes you belong at Headquarters. She could use this incident to convince the Council they made a mistake in sending you back out with me, and try to get them to change their minds."

"You think they might?"

"Not while I have anything to say about it," Bogg growled.

"Me, too," Jeffrey agreed fervently. "Not until it's time for me to go to Voyager school, anyway—Or maybe I won't have to, since I'm getting my training now," he interrupted himself and looked at Bogg questioningly.

"You probably will; there just isn't time for me to teach you everything you need to know," the older Voyager told him. "But you've got a long time to go before you have to worry about that; you won't even be eligible until you're at least sixteen."

"Well, until then, I'm your kid," he grinned.

Bogg smiled back warmly. "In all but name and blood," he replied. "And I can fix the 'name' part of that if you want; it'll just take a quick trip to Headquarters."

Jeffrey's whole face lit up; he'd been secretly hoping for that very thing for months.

The offer surprised Bogg as much as it did Jeff; the words had just come tumbling out without forethought, but the boy's reaction told him Sharon was right: It did indeed seem to be just what he needed. "Don't answer right now," he said. "That's a pretty big decision; I want you to take your time and think about it. You need to be sure you're ready."

That was fair enough, Jeffrey decided; he did still have an emotional conflict to resolve. But his grin didn't slip a bit as he nodded his acquiescence; he already knew what his answer was going to be.

_**To be continued in "Jeffrey's Leap," coming soon; watch for it in the Crossovers section.**_

(1) Nineteenth-century con artist, famous for selling the Brooklyn Bridge twice a week for years.


End file.
